Broken and Courageous
by FandomsWithAnS
Summary: Hermione is Draco's glimmer of hope. And she shines the brightest in Draco's darkest times. Dramione, with a little angst. Less talking, more of Draco's feelings. Disclaimer - i don't own these charaters.


**Broken and Courageous**

* * *

We were both so bloody broken. Battered and bruised with the physical and mental torment of this seemingly never ending war with the Dark Lord that breathed down our neck persistently. Evil, sinister, unholy things brewed at the darkest corners, hiding behind the cover of the shadows, blending into the darkness like a black cat until the pounced at the most unexpected times; claws extended and fangs bared.

I've been emotionally drained for as long as I could remember, my voice and heart sucked out of me. Prejudice was something I learnt since I was young, as soon as I could pick up a wand. I was raised according to Pureblood's creeds, expectations and stereotypes hammered and pounded into me for years until discrimination was a second nature to me. Pride had tainted my judgement and I wore biased-coloured glasses as I looked down upon the world.

I was _far_ from perfect.

So was _she_.

A third of the famous Golden Trio was a heavy weight upon tender, vulnerable shoulders. As insignificant as she may seem, compared beside the renowned Harry Potter, she was vital in their successful endeavors. Potter and Weasel had half a brain unbalanced to their brawn. Both were incompetent oaths that relied on that certain girl, or maybe I am just unfair. She practically wore the pants in this little group , sprouting facts and information key to solving the unsolvable. Bloody hell was she brilliant, discovering exceptional concepts and was responsible for many discoveries including the Basilisk's whereabouts that threatened the students of Hogwarts. Merlin, Harry and Ron just did the work, work that didn't need to be done if it wasn't for her. I can't fathom how she must feel, in addition being a muggle-born, needing to live up to the expectations of the brilliance she should possess, always be relied on, used, like she was a walking encyclopedia book.

I could see the taunts getting to her. The challenges and obstacles. She'd gotten reckless, distant and impulsive or time. Maybe she had something to prove, something she wanted to show to the world; that she wasn't just a muggle-born gifted with an acute brain. What she needed people to believe? I don't know.

I wonder to what extend would she be pressured, tightly strung out, until she would _snap_.

I guess that goes for _me_ too.

I've always been pressured and distressed. Being a Malfoy is never easy. Sure, we are famous and rich and legendary. But I never stated '_pleasing'_.

Every move I made was something that could potentially haunt me, possibly plague my family forever. Everything I ever did, a word, an action, a spell, I would have to weigh the pros and cons and determine if it was a good move, or not. Somewhat like chess, I reckon. One misstep is the annihilation of your king. It's a game, but it's not. If you call my life a gamble, sure. More like Russian roulette .

I've been lectured over and over and over like a repeating chant, an undeniable voice at the back of my head that no matter what I'd do I would hear my father's harsh, grating words remind me, "You are a Malfoy, a pureblood, leading back thousands of centuries. Do not forget your heritage." _Malfoy_. The word both made me proud and sent a static shock of fear through my pure-blood. It seemed like my father predicted I would be the disappointment, failure, and disgrace to my name. He admonished me not to make a terrible mistake, even if he didn't say that word for word I could decipher his warnings and if not heeded, will have horrible consequences. Sometimes, I wish I wasn't a pureblood. Or a Malfoy. Or even a wizard. So I wouldn't get tangled up in someone else's problems. I didn't ask for this. But I was born into it.

She probably felt the same. I wonder if sometimes she dreamt of what her life would be like if the higher power watching over wizards and muggles alike decided to spare her the burdens of magic. Maybe, in an alternate world, when she wasn't brought a letter inviting her to Hogwarts, she'd be playing basketball, attending her muggle-school, licking ice-creams with her little brother and laughing care-freely with her mates as they frolicking by the beach.

I guess reality is a slap in the face.

She and I have both had the brunt of harsh expectations.

What I've been practically forced to do is unthinkable, undeniably sinister, inhumane, dishonest and utmost vile. But the tasks I've completed, or, was meant to complete, was definitely unbalanced on the scale of voluntarily and being under duress – the latter being heavier. But I wish you could understand that I've always wanted to step into the light, but the chains of my heritage and the expectations and presumptions of my parents have held me back hostage in the dark side. I felt like I was a puppet, a limb marionette doll controlled by mere strings manned by my relatives and Voldemort. I was a simple tool, pawn, to do the Dark Lord's wanting. If I failed, I still wonder what they would inflict on me as my demise.

And even throughout the war, I watched her from a distance. Through the hopeless darkness, through the stench of death, battles of raging war, and crumbling walls with debris and rubble collecting at our feet - I could see her. She was an embodiment, aglow. The soft coffee brown hair that framed her face in curls reflected the dimming sun and maybe the fading hope that scarcely washed over the wizarding population. Each day her skin seemed to become dirtier and dirtier, the grime and dust that covered her skin showed how she never rested. Mud and filth soaked into her clothes suggested the short time for herself she had that even ruled cleaning herself out of her priorities. The dark circles under her eyes was the result of scarce sleep… and yet, her chocolate brown, gentle orbs inspired determination of a lion and restlessness of a forgotten soul. Alert and observant, calculating like a true snake, undeniable, even in the face of imminent danger. She was beautiful, and not even a war could dull her elegance.

It was her. How she stood, regal, vigilant, brave, undeterred by the presence of Voldemort himself and the claim that Harry Potter was dead. Standing tall, standing for what she believed, supporting her fellow brethren she had come to treat as family, refusing to back down. I remember that she, despite her blood status, was offered a place in the Dark Side due to her brilliance; but yet, she adamantly refused, not even flinching as Lucius promised her ultimate end if she denied. She was loyal like a K-9 dog. Maybe he would die. So would Hermione. But at least they would die serving their purpose and fighting for their side.

Her courage seemed to drift across the courtyard to me, weaving through the crowds of despondent souls. I felt warm, mellow, like her arms wrapped around me in a protective embrace. One that accepted me for who I truly was and encouraged me to act upon it. I found bravery deep within me that was forced away by my comrades resurface and bubbled within me like a pressure cooker. I knew I was done serving for something I was not willing to advocate. _Thanks to her._

When Potter made a scene, I dashed. Dashed like I never have before, for my _life_, my _values_, for _love_. I came to the conclusion that _she_ _saved_ _me_. Saved me from _Voldemort_, saved me from my _family_, saved me from _myself_, from turning into a hollow shell of what I used to be; weighed down by guilt and regrets – a depressed soul that floated aimlessly across the world, haunted by it's past. A past that could never be changed, no matter how sorry or apologies bared.

I've made mistakes. Mistakes that I am sorry for, but repent does not change the fact it was wrong. Decisions I've made will last forever, it's something I will have to live with.

And that's okay.

Because she saw the good in me. She awakened the antagonist I've hidden, and now I will act upon it. Maybe I cannot change the past, but I _will_ influence my future.

All because of _her_.

A face of hope when I was blind. A voice of support when I was deaf. A touch of comfort when I was broken.

Maybe we're scarred by the war; crippled with sacrifices; haunted by unnecessary deaths; but we survived, we won; together. And this time – I'm _never_ letting her go.


End file.
